The morning sky over Manhattan was the color of steel. Rain streaked down the tall glass walls of Roman Global Headquarters, tracing faint paths like veins across the city's reflection. From his office on the 84th floor, Chief Roman watched the storm with hands clasped behind his back, every inch the image of composure.
He had been awake since before dawn. Sleep, lately, had become an indulgence he could no longer afford.
The monitors behind him played silent loops of data — satellite feeds, telemetry reports, coded transmissions from Jos. One by one, they flickered, dimmed, and fell into static. The room's lights faltered briefly before stabilizing.
Roman didn't move. His gaze stayed on the city's edge, calm and unblinking.
"Marcus," he said.
The door opened immediately. Marcus entered, posture firm, voice low. "We've lost visuals from Kagara Valley. Every drone feed dropped at 0400 hours. The local servers in Jos went dark three seconds later."
Roman turned at last, his movements measured. "All of them?"
"All. Including the thermal units. We ran diagnostics twice — no interference, no physical damage. It's as if something absorbed the signal completely."
Roman walked toward the desk, the echo of his shoes sharp in the quiet. "Absorbed," he repeated, almost to himself. "Not disrupted?"
Marcus shook his head. "No, sir. Nothing bounced back. The energy readings peaked, then vanished. Like a pulse that swallowed its own echo."
Roman stopped beside the largest monitor, its static faintly patterned in circular ripples. His eyes narrowed. "And the team?"
"No contact. Their equipment's unresponsive. We've dispatched a secondary crew to establish a ground perimeter."
Roman's face betrayed nothing. He studied the interference on the screen — the faint geometry woven into the noise — and then pressed a fingertip lightly against the glass. The pattern shivered under his touch, aligning momentarily into a perfect spiral before fading.
He withdrew his hand. "Interesting."
Marcus hesitated. "You think it's connected to the site's relics?"
"I think it's responding," Roman said simply. "Energy doesn't vanish. It finds resonance."
He walked to the window, the storm reflected in his polished shoes. "Prepare the Blackridge unit for redeployment. Silent insertion. No comms. They'll recover the artifacts and any surviving personnel."
"Yes, sir."
Roman paused, his gaze still on the skyline. "And if they find Chuka Nwankwo?"
Marcus didn't flinch. "Neutralize?"
Roman's reply was quiet, precise. "No. Not yet. Bring him in. Alive. I need to know how he activated it."
Marcus inclined his head, then left the room, the soft click of the door sealing the silence once more.
For several minutes, Roman didn't move. He stared down at the Hudson — gray and endless beneath the rain — until the reflection of the monitors behind him flickered faintly in the window glass. He turned back, his expression unreadable.
The static on the screens shifted again, this time slower, forming the unmistakable outline of the Jos Plateau. A faint red glow pulsed in its center — the exact coordinates of Kagara Valley.
Roman leaned forward, hands braced on the desk. "So," he murmured, "you've woken up."
He reached for a tablet and opened a private file: PROJECT AEGIS – CLASSIFIED ARCHIVE. The first image that appeared was old — a sepia photograph of a dig site in northern Nigeria, dated 1989. In the photo, a much younger man knelt beside a carved stone slab, smiling proudly at the camera. Beside him, a boy — no more than ten — watched with wide eyes.
Roman's father.
And himself.
He studied the image in silence.
Then, almost absently, he placed a hand against his chest — feeling the faint tremor beneath his ribs. For a moment, he thought it was his pulse. Then he realized it wasn't.
The vibration was coming from the steel cabinet across the room.
Roman's head turned slightly, but he didn't move closer. The hum was faint — a resonance so low it might have been imagination. Yet it matched the pulse of the interference on the monitors.
He exhaled through his nose, forcing calm back into his voice. "Containment integrity report."
The AI assistant's tone broke the silence: "All containment parameters nominal. Energy fluctuation within acceptable variance."
Roman smiled faintly — not relief, but acknowledgment. "Acceptable variance," he repeated. "How easily we lie to ourselves."
The hum subsided, leaving only the rain against glass.
Roman returned to his desk, opening a secure line on the encrypted console. The screen displayed a single icon — the seal of the International Cultural Preservation Council, one of the organizations he secretly funded.
He typed a message with the precision of a surgeon:
> "Initiate full lockdown on Nigerian excavation registry. Effective immediately. No new permits, no outgoing data. Kagara Valley is to be sealed under preservation clause C-17."
He hit send.
Within moments, responses began to light up the screen — bureaucrats and ministers obeying without question. The machinery of control moved smoothly, invisibly.
Roman leaned back in his chair. The city thundered outside, but he looked utterly composed. Every motion was deliberate, every breath steady. Yet his eyes — sharp, gray, unblinking — betrayed something deeper. Calculation, yes. But beneath it, something colder.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He turned once more to the window. In the reflection, the faint outline of the cabinet could be seen behind him. For a heartbeat, a red glow pulsed from within — so faint it could have been lightning.
Roman didn't look back. He simply whispered, "If it's awake, then the others will feel it too."
The thunder outside answered like a distant drum.